


A golden fur coat

by pseudoMaths



Category: Cruella de Vil - Fandom, James Bond - All Media Types
Genre: And what happened to the corgis, Crack Crossover, I'm not a monster, Multi, Satire, The dogs don't die
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-19
Updated: 2021-03-20
Packaged: 2021-03-28 09:21:13
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,187
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30137388
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pseudoMaths/pseuds/pseudoMaths
Summary: Someone stole the Queen's corgis. James Bond, cynical killer, is on the case.





	1. Put out to pasture

"The name is Bond. James Bond."

"...I am well aware. When will you get caller ID? The year is 2021, Jamie. It's Moneypenny. You're needed. We have a delicate situation."

Bond sighed to himself, wondering if it was worth the trouble to try to fuck her into a more pleasant mood. With all the recent #metoo business, a man hardly dared to breathe in the vicinity of a woman any more. He adjusted his tie and shrugged on a perfectly cut jacket. After a quick glance in the antique hallway mirror to brush off a few specks of lint and adjust his, if he dared be so presumptuous, _flawlessly_ tousled hair he was on his way.

After a quick drive to work that broke no more than 5-10 different traffic laws (20, tops) he found himself bantering with Moneypenny in her demesne. The wooden panels still today, 15 years after the indoors smoking ban, held the faint scent of M's predecessor's cigars.

"Will you let me ...enter unopposed...?"

"Why Jamie, I would let you enter anything unopposed. Except that office. M is on the phone liaising with a certain personage."

Sadly, the buzzer rang before Bond managed to come up with a clever dick joke related to personage. He entered (ha!) the office still wondering what kind of delicate situation would require his assistance on a Sunday. Was there a Russian spy that needed assassinating? A North Korean to seduce? An American to annoy and/or feed to sharks? Ooooh. Perhaps it was another nuclear submarine thing. He did love those. Endless opportunities for dick jokes.

"Good morning ma'am." he politely nodded a greeting to M.

"Bond." she nodded back. "As Moneypenny told you, we have a delicate situation on our hands. It involves a national treasure. It goes without saying that this needs to be handled with the utmost discretion."

"I am nothing if not discrete ma'am. You can rely on me." On the inside he was positively bubbling with enthusiasm. He had spent the last six months pushing papers and itching for the chance to kill someone. If not a Russian spy, then at least Dwight in accounting. Seriously, expecting HIM to itemise all of his expenses? Questioning if it was appropriate to bill quite that many martinis to the government? Dwight was just asking for it at this point.

"Certain items of great sentimental value to a person central to the Royal Family have been stolen. The thief broke into Buckingham Palace in the middle of the night and vanished with them without a trace. It is of utmost importance that the items are recovered quietly."

He started blankly for a few seconds. "Not a chance in hell. I have better things to do with myself than tracking down the Prince of Wales's knickers."

"These orders come from the highest authority. The only alternative for you is being put out to pasture. Need I remind you of what happens to people like you when your licence to kill is revoked?"

He did not need the reminder. What he, and 002, and 009 had had to do to stop the former 008 was very fresh in his mind.

"Besides, I can assure you that there will be no knickers involved. Not the Prince of Wales's at least."

"Very well. A recreational assignment might be interesting anyway. Am I authorised to use lethal force for the duration?"

"If necessary. Use your discretion, 007. You will be further briefed by the Queen's aide-de-camp who will be arriving shortly. After that, you may requisition any equipment you need from Q."


	2. All for art

Let me tell you a story. You want to hear about the dogs, but I'll start from the beginning. My name is not actually Cruella. Who names their child something like that? But Cruella is the name I chose when my actual life began. No one understood me as a girl. My parents claimed to support my fashion ambitions. I think it was the only part of me they understood. Fashion to them was soft and feminine and frivolous, all the things their strange and cold daughter was not.

I studied fashion for several years. Where? I will not tell you. The details of my past are utterly irrelevant. Who I was is not who I am. What matters is that I learned to drape fabrics, create patterns, mould fabric into the visions in my dreams. Somewhere along the way I changed my name and remade myself into Cruella. A being of art and beauty and elegance. My designs won awards. My creations came closer and closer to the perfection I sometimes see tantalising hints of in my dreams. My graduation show, filled with shadows of tulle and architectural sculpted shantung, made me Cruella de Vil with the fashion world.

I shed my hopelessly middle class family like they never existed. A well timed fire. Tragic, how those things happen sometimes. Nothing and no one can connect me to my past any more.

My inspiration comes from materials. I see them, I touch them, I smell them, I shine lights on them. I drape them over mannequins or pieces of furniture or make my star struck interns twirl around in them. When the material comes alive, I see what it was truly meant to be and I remake it to my vision. Sometimes it's the feeling of the softest cream silk velvet in a store. Other times it's the way sunlight dapples over the brandy-coloured coat of a calf.

My main weakness? When I see something that speaks to me, I acquire it. My purpose in life is to turn beautiful things into wearable art. Nothing else matters. These days, I am the eccentric and wealthy creative director of a major fashion house. I can acquire mostly anything through legal channels. Theoretically. I choose not to. The excitement and planning involved in acquiring it in more creative ways, or acquiring materials that are taboo to wear, is what makes my clothing so sublime. You can almost taste the exhilaration when you wear an authentic Cruella.

Regular haute couture is an experience. It is a wearable piece of art, and every hour of sweat, every blister from applying the beading, the love that goes into cutting out the pattern, makes you shine when you wear it. A Cruella is more. It carries all of that, but also the feeling of slowly creeping over a rooftop to disable an alarm. A precise circle cut through a pane of glass with a diamond. The satisfaction when one of your wealthiest clients wears a dress sewn with stolen pearls to a party where she mingles with the director of Interpol. The transgressive pleasure when you show a capelet made from silky grey kitten fur to an unsuspecting audience. Imagine how horrified their little bourgeoise minds would be if they knew what the clothing they ooh and aah over was made of?

That, my dear, is why I stole they dogs. Can you imagine a finer piece of art than an elegant, majestic coat from soft golden fur, stolen from the Queen herself?


End file.
